


The Sofa It Is

by EbonyKnight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 22:39:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9926903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKnight/pseuds/EbonyKnight
Summary: In short, there is almost-smut, a conversation with John about Sherlock's academic achievements, a roundabout suggestion of almost co-habitation, and then more almost-smut.I suck at summaries.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Pity. 
> 
> This came about after a conversation with CindyLouWho, who provides so much inspiration for my Sherstrade ramblings. 
> 
> This was an experiment in exercising neutrality towards John. I didn't insult him once, so I reckon it's getting there. 
> 
> Not beta'd, so all mistakes are my own. I do intend to hunt the buggers out after a decent night's sleep, though. 
> 
> Any feedback is loved <3

The sound of the flat door closing forced Greg out of his lazy Saturday morning slumber. The bed was warm and comfortable, and, after a hectic Friday, dozing the morning away had been positively therapeutic. 

“Finally conscious?” Sherlock snarked from beside him, and Greg rolled over so he could see the younger man. His partner was propped up in bed, naked, reading the Chemical Science journal. “Given your age and activity levels, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you need so much sleep.” 

“You’re such a charmer,” Greg replied, stretching languorously. With his reading glasses slipping down his nose and hair standing up every which way, Sherlock was absolutely adorable, but it was more than Greg’s life’s worth to say as much. “You got a visitor?”

Sherlock lowered the journal and removed his glasses, dropping both to the floor beside the bed. “It was Mrs Hudson; there is likely a tea tray and pile of junk mail in the living room” he said, shifting until he was laid beside Greg. “Do you feel sufficiently rested?”

“For what?” 

“Sex. I was thinking mutual fellatio, but, recalling your arrest of Abbott yesterday, a quick hand job will do.” Sherlock was so close that his hot breath caressed Greg’s face. “You really are incomprehensibly attractive at such times.”

His willpower, whilst adequate for quitting smoking and knocking gambling on the head, was not up to the task of resisting such an explicit offer from his partner, and Greg was compelled to close the little space between them, bringing their lips together in a hungry kiss, morning breath be damned. Seemingly in no time at all, Greg found himself pinned to the bed by Sherlock’s body, the younger man’s hands buried in his hair as he efficiently reduced Greg to a panting mass of desperation. 

“Why is it,” Sherlock murmured as he shifted himself down Greg’s body, “that your responses never get boring?” He lowered his mouth to Greg’s right nipple, worrying the sensitive nub gently between his teeth, and Greg was unable to stifle a moan as the sensation went straight to his cock. “I know that if I stroke right here you’ll thrust up against me,” he said, fingertips teasing the delicate skin behind Greg’s balls, and the older man reacted as predicted despite himself. “I know exactly how your body responds to physical stimuli, but doing it again and again doesn't get less satisfying. Why?”

“Don’t know and don’t care,” Greg replied, running his hands down Sherlock’s back to cup his plush buttocks. His partner pushed into his hands and Greg felt a flush of arousal and deep affection; Sherlock might find Greg’s responses satisfying and interesting, but Greg knew he would never get over his astonishment at how enthusiastically his partner responded to him, at how much the younger man trusted him in such intimate ways. “Fuck, you’re amazing.”

With a groan, Sherlock captured Greg’s lips and quickly deepened the kiss, using his lips and tongue so effectively that Greg felt light headed with arousal. Sherlock carefully worked his right thigh between Greg’s legs, exerting pressure _just so_ and the older man was helpless to stop himself from rutting against it. “Fucking tease,” he panted, pulling away from Sherlock’s mouth to kiss his way down the younger man’s sensitive neck instead. 

The sound of the flat door opening and closing diverted Greg’s attention and he moved his lips away. “It’ll be Mrs Hudson bringing a loaf of bread or something equally inconsequential,” Sherlock said breathily, using the hand remaining in Greg’s hair to guide his mouth back down to his neck. “Don’t stop.”

Having long been a sucker for Sherlock’s pleas, Greg was certainly not going to refuse when he asked so nicely. He reapplied himself to his task, sucking and nipping at the sensitive skin, revelling in every involuntary noise and movement his attention provoked.

“You getting out of bed sometime today, you lazy sod?” came John Watson’s voice from the corridor, and Greg distinctly heard his footsteps approaching the bedroom door.

“I’ll be out in a moment!” Sherlock called back, voice rough, and dropped his head onto Greg’s shoulder with a sigh. “I’m sorry.” 

Greg ran his hand down Sherlock’s back soothingly as John’s footsteps retreated. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, though he could hear the disappointment in his own voice. 

“I’ll go and see what he wants.” Sherlock manoeuvred until he was supporting his weight through his strong arms, carefully moving his leg from between Greg’s, and shifted back to his side of the bed. He made quick work of getting up and pulling on his pyjama bottoms, and Greg was sorry to see his pert bottom and strong thighs covered. “Stay here, I won’t be long,” Sherlock said, shrugging into his dressing gown as he opened the door. 

Alone in the bedroom, Greg looked around. They had got in late the night before after a long, tiring day, which had culminated in Greg physically chasing down a suspect. His knees were still sore from tackling the fleeing Abbott, but it was worth it to see such a vicious rapist behind bars. The room looked very much the same as it always did, with papers tidily stacked here and there, and a pile of dirty socks that Sherlock insisted were an experiment in a corner. There was, however, a second wardrobe, which had not been there last time he had stayed over, but Greg had failed to notice in his exhaustion the previous night. With trepidation, for one never knew what to expect behind closed doors in Sherlock’s home, Greg opened the door and found it empty. He snorted to himself, feeling slightly disappointed at not finding something questionable hanging inside. 

Time in Sherlock’s bedroom was lovely, something he looked forward to even, but it was much more satisfying if the other man was in there with him. Long minutes passed and he quickly become bored, though the rapid comedown from arousal left him feeling slightly jittery, too. Giving it up as a bad job, Greg opened his holdall, which had been discarded at the foot of the bed, and removed his clothes. In short order he was dressed in jeans and a snug brown jumper, and ran a hand through his hair, trying fruitlessly to tame it. 

“Morning,” John said, as Greg entered the living room. He was standing by the fireplace flicking through Sherlock’s mail, looking relaxed and happy, and the older man hoped it was a sign that his therapy was continuing to progress well. It had taken months of fraught conversations before John had consented to being in the same room as Greg, following his reporting of the doctor for battery of Sherlock, but they were definitely getting there. 

“Morning,” Greg replied, dropping onto the sofa. “How’s Rosie?”

A bright smile lit John’s face. “Really well. She’s talking properly now: I can’t believe how fast the time is flying.”

Thinking back to when Jacob, his eight year old son, had been that age, Greg grinned. “Yeah, their character really starts to shine through, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock entered the living room from the kitchen carrying a mug, which he handed to John as he passed, and joined Greg on the sofa. Even through their clothes Greg could feel his partner’s body heat, and he felt a dull throb of arousal, his body signalling that it was most displeased at being so rudely interrupted. 

A snort from John drew Greg’s attention. “Since when’re you a doctor, Sherlock?” he asked, holding up an envelope. 

From across the room Greg could not make out the logo in the top right corner, but Sherlock apparently had no problem. “It’s from the Cambridge chemistry alumni group; they insist on using the title, and seem to think that the chance of me agreeing to speak at one of their events increases proportionately with the number of times they write to me. Idiots.” 

“You’ve got a doctorate?” John asked, eyebrows climbing his forehead. “Since when?”

“Since I completed my PhD in chemistry in two thousand and two,” Sherlock replied, placing his right hand on Greg’s thigh, despite the presence of his friend. Greg had never been one for public displays of affection, but Sherlock’s limited respect for notions personal space had flown out of the window entirely once their relationship had turned romantic, and he was now used to his partner’s hands wandering when they had company. 

“I had no idea,” John said, putting the mail back on the mantelpiece. He took a sip of his coffee and ambled over to his chair, dropping into it with a sigh. “Why didn’t you tell me? That’s really something to be proud of.”

Sherlock huffed. “Why would I? When we met we were both looking for a flatmate; knowing each other’s academic achievements was irrelevant.”

“Fair enough, Dr Holmes,” John replied with a smile. “Anyway, it looks like things are still good with you two.”

“Yeah, they’re great,” Greg said, laying his hand over Sherlock’s and giving it a squeeze.

“Yes, yes, we’re very happy together. Now, what do you want? We were having sex when you arrived and I’d like to get back to it,” Sherlock said bluntly. 

For a long moment time seemed to stand still; Greg stared at John who was staring blankly at Sherlock, and silence reigned apart from the loud whooshing in his ears. Suddenly the moment broke and it felt to Greg like all of the blood in his body rushed to his face. “Sherlock, you can’t say things like that!” he spluttered as John burst into laughter.

“Why not?” Sherlock asked huffily, trailing his fingers higher up Greg’s thigh. “We _were_ having sex, and I _would_ like to get back to it.” He looked at John and continued, “You’re always welcome here, but if you’ve come to quiz me about my academic background and drink tea, would you mind if we left you to it for an hour?”

John’s eyes flicked between them, a grin splitting his face. “You’re priceless, Sherlock, absolutely priceless. Actually, I came to ask if you’ll babysit Rosie tonight. I texted and called but got no answer; I thought your phone was off, but now I reckon you were just too busy to notice.”

“Of course I will,” Sherlock replied absently and removed his hand from Greg’s thigh to pull his phone out of his dressing gown pocket. “It must have run out of power over night. Can you bring her here?”

“Yeah, no problem. You all right to keep her overnight?” 

“Yes. I’ve tidied the bedroom upstairs and there is now a child-friendly bed in there,” Sherlock said, returning the phone to his pocket. 

“A kid’s bed?” Greg asked at the same time as John said, “Why now? Mrs Hudson has been on at you to sort that room out since you came back from not being dead.” 

“It was time to sort it. And yes, Greg, a kid’s bed. I thought that if there was somewhere safe for Jacob to stay you could spend more time here. It’s also suitable for Rosie, and means I can look after her from here, which is more convenient for me than travelling back from John’s house when I have an experiment running.”

Heart aflutter, Greg’s mind provided an image of the new wardrobe in the bedroom. “Do you need a hand getting the new wardrobe up there?”

Sherlock scoffed. “No. There is a perfectly functional child’s wardrobe upstairs. The new one in our bedroom is for you; if you’re going to spend more time here, you'll need somewhere to keep your clothes. There’s not enough space in my wardrobe as it is, and—”

He was not conscious of deciding to act, but Greg found himself turning as much as possible in his seat and interrupting Sherlock with his lips. Cupping Sherlock’s face in his hands, Greg poured everything he wanted to say to his mad, brilliant, gorgeous partner into the kiss.

John cleared his throat but Greg was barely cognisant of it, for Sherlock dropped a hand to Greg’s thigh and quickly moved it higher, apparently impairing his ability to think straight. 

“Right, well I’ll be off then,” John said loudly, his voice managing to break through the fog of lust and need blanketing Greg’s senses.

For all that he knew he should probably have been mortally embarrassed, Greg was too aroused to care that John had witnessed his desire for Sherlock. “Sorry, John,” he said, not feeling sorry at all. His heart was pounding and he was hyperaware of his partner’s hand, which was far too close to his crotch to be acceptable in another’s presence. 

“Yes I will watch Rosie tonight, yes she can stay here, and yes I would like you to leave. Now,” Sherlock said, voice low and rough, fingertips brushing Greg’s erection through his jeans. 

John laughed. “Thanks. I’ll be off, then,” he said, standing up. “Have fun.”

As soon as the door closed Sherlock stood up, tugging on Greg’s hand. “Bedroom, now.”

Greg allowed himself to be pulled and quickly found himself pressed bodily against Sherlock, and it was _very_ obvious that his partner was as aroused as he was. Greg leant in, capturing the younger man’s lips in a heated kiss. “Fuck, I want you now,” he panted when they eventually parted, very much doubting their ability to make it as far as the bedroom. 

“Hmm,” Sherlock breathed against Greg’s neck, mouthing hotly against the sensitive skin. “I agree: the sofa it is.”


End file.
